Rebuilding
by dearfranny
Summary: Phoenix takes care of a sick Trucy. Meanwhile, the lonely office reminds him of everything he's lost and how things have changed...


**Author's Note: **My English has improved. I looked back at my old work and noticed all the errors... So I decided to start over, from scratch. I'm keeping the old version though-I don't have the heart to delete it. Sigh.

* * *

After his disbarment, he had expected to feel waves of grief and pyres of rage. Regret, too, and lots of it. He put those words in his head some time back—although it felt as if it were long ago. He had known what to expect, and he had braced himself for it. He'd hoped that it would ease the transition if he knew what was coming. It didn't.

Trying to snap out of his thoughts, he looked around. The sunlight streamed filtered through the office curtains above him. Phoenix held his head back and stared at the turned-off fluorescent light, then at the slightly yellowing paint of the ceiling, then to the wallpapered walls. He realized he'd been sitting on the floor for about half an hour.

The office was more or less the same as before from this angle, albeit dirtier and quieter. He pulled himself up. He realized he was sitting exactly where he'd found Mia dead almost five years ago.

Phoenix stretched. Now, the office felt smaller, probably from the sheer amount of objects it contained. Things littered the ground: a toy, an old shirt, an empty bag of chips, a law book with the spine torn lengthwise. Phoenix tried to walk around them.

He gave the shelf a quick glance. Trucy's clothes were folded up neatly on the middle shelf. Above them, difficult-looking legal books stood in a formidable row. They mocked him, so he averted his gaze. Currently, they were covered in dust and probably were of no monetary value—they were old books, with notes in the margins, sloppy highlighting, and pictures sandwiched between the pages—typical Mia. They took up a considerable amount of space, but they were Mia's books. They belonged to this office more than he did. He let them be.

Phoenix, his thoughts still wandering, walked across the room.

_"How long has it been?" _he thought.

For some reason, he'd managed to survive. Days had passed, then weeks, then months. The sharp hurt was replaced by a heaviness which never really went away. He knew he could ignore it if he tried, and so, Phoenix did. Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, he pushed open the door and made his way to what used to be the office's reception area. He had to check on Trucy.

The lights were off, but unlike the office proper, the reception room had less natural light. Phoenix blinked as his eyes adjusted. He left the door ajar. Trucy was asleep on the old leather sofa. He decided not to bother her—not yet. He looked around the room. Phoenix began to search for the first-aid kit Mia left on the top shelf. There were two such kits; the other, in the office bathroom, had run out of Trucy's cold meds.

What he was looking for was in the drawer near the door. He hoped to find something usable. He unzipped it, revealing depleted gauze, old-looking iodine, and—bingo—a half-empty bottle of "Coldkiller X". He took it and checked the label—paracetamol with some stuff. He'd need to cut it in half to get the dosage right for Trucy, though. Next, the expiration date. It was years from now. He thanked his lucky stars—he really did need these. Her fever was high and incapacitating. It worried him that he might have to take her to a doctor soon—they had no funds for that.

Phoenix sighed.

He made his way around the things scattered on the ground—the ever growing grave of disorder and dirt, and tried to find a path in the wreckage that was once his office—that was once his life. He scoffed at himself for getting poetic in his inner monologue. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The sight of the office irritated him today. He felt the throb of a migraine beginning to set in. Ignoring it, he padded his way to where Trucy lay.

A coffee table was in his way; absentmindedly, he kicked it. It slammed against the drawer, which then slammed against the wall.

Trucy shot up and cringed. "Wattappened?" she said.

Papers fell from above, kicking up dust. Trucy began to cough. "You okay-?" he asked; Trucy cut him off with nods between coughs. Their eyes met; instinctively, he looked away. "Lie back down."

"What's wrong?" She blinked a few times, looking agitated. "What _was _that?" Trucy asked.

Gesturing to the table, he replied, "I just... miscalculated." After a pause, he added, "Sorry to wake you." He smiled to put her at ease.

"O-Okay," Trucy said. She lay back down. Phoenix noticed that she was pale. She shouldn't have exerted herself, he thought. _He_ shouldn't have woken her in the first place, Phoenix thought again. He noticed that she was back asleep. Phoenix watched her for a few seconds to be sure she was breathing—he knew he was being paranoid, but he couldn't help but worry. "She'd been shivering the entire night on day two," Phoenix recalled. Today, she'd spent her hours sleeping, which Phoenix knew was an improvement. He carefully walked up to the sofa.

The office's silence made him think of things he'd rather not think about. He tried to stop himself from reminiscing—he found it hard to, but he kept trying. His daughter was too sick to deal with his emotions.

"_Daughter, huh,"_ Phoenix thought. He barely ever referred to her as that. He sat down on the floor, his back against the sofa. He'd gotten used to the whole father-daughter dynamic without realizing it.

He remembered a time when living with Trucy just meant co-existing. She was a reminder of everything he'd lost. It used to hurt to look at her. Now, she was the most precious thing he had.

"_How long has it been?"_ Phoenix thought again. He tossed the pills on the floor beside him.

He looked around the room. The carpet was filthy. On the floor beside him was a basin of ice-water, a digital thermometer, and a pillow. He took the thermometer and pressed the button on the front. The small LED displayed ON in red letters. Phoenix was impressed with his find—the old thing still worked, he thought. He'd found it somewhere in the office in his first search for cold meds.

"Trucy," he said. He raised the thermometer above his head. "Sorry to wake you again."

"I feel better," she replied. "No need to check." Trucy gave him a pat on the head. "You go rest," she said.

"Maybe better than yesterday, but you're not a hundred percent well yet," he replied. Trucy shook her head. Phoenix knelt up, took the towel he'd used to cool her off, and placed the back of his hand on her forehead. "Still something." He compared the heat coming from his forehead and hers—hers was still significantly hotter, but it was a slight improvement from yesterday. He felt relieved.

"I'm fine now—even _you_ think so," she said. Phoenix cast her a glance. "Well, I'm fine-_er!_" she said.

Phoenix smiled. "I've got to be sure, of course." Trucy looked up at him with a slight smile. He tousled her hair.

"Hey," she mumbled. "I don'wanna look like a mess."

He sat back down. "Says the girl who hasn't showered in nearly half a week," Phoenix said.

"I was sick, okay?" she said. She mussed up his hair in return.

"You still are, by the way," Phoenix replied. "Though, you_ do _seem to have more energy today," he said. Beside him was the basin of ice-water with a can of beer he'd placed there to cool. He soaked the towel in the cold water and wrung it. He waited for a few seconds of silence, then, "Surprise—," he said, and flung the towel toward her.

It landed on her face. "Eek! C-Cold... Daddy!" she squealed. Trucy giggled.

She suddenly grew silent. "You okay?" Phoenix asked.

"My head hurts," she said. "It just...hurts more when I laugh."

Phoenix sighed. "I told you so."

"My head feels heavy," she said.

Phoenix remembered the bottle of pills he found. He glanced up at the wall-clock. He commended his timing—her last dose would've just finished wearing off by now. "Time for meds," he said. Trucy sat up slowly; Phoenix helped her up.

Phoenix saw a half-empty glass of water on a table near him and reached for it.

_Half-empty._ He used to view things as half-full. Phoenix sighed, wondering why he noticed such irrelevance.

"Here," Phoenix said, handing Trucy the glass. Her hand shook slightly. Phoenix snapped a pill in half. "Meds," Phoenix said. Trucy took it, along with the rest of the water, some of which dribbled down her chin.

She lay back down. "You should rest," Phoenix said.

"You need sleep, too, Daddy."

"I don't need it," he replied. He felt Trucy's stare—she knew it was a half-truth. "I can't sleep," Phoenix said. He sat down. "Anyway, have a nice nap."

"...Okay," she said, drifting off.

He buried his head in his hands waiting for her to fall asleep. It didn't take long.

Phoenix remembered the basin of ice-water with the can of beer inside it. He took it and clicked it open. He knew it was a waste of money, but it was one of his rare luxuries. He'd bought just one, and saved it for times of need.

He needed this right now.

It was hopefully enough to get rid of the stress associated with taking care of a sick child—and of the silence that seemed to assault him from all fronts.

He savored it. He never liked the taste, but he liked the way it made him feel. Leaning against the sofa, he closed his eyes.

He remembered his choice of alcohol getting cheaper and cheaper as the days passed. He barely drank—he used to drink only to celebrate. Now he only drank to dull things during times like these; quiet times, when his thoughts wandered and repeatedly stabbed him in the back.

He drank the most the weeks following his disbarment. Discarded cans and bottles in a plastic bag for recycling, all reeking of alcohol and his misery, were piled up outside the complex and in the trashcans. Days passed by without much ado; thinking was all he ever did—and it hurt. He pictured himself sitting idly, waiting to die and wanting to, but never having the will to actually do so. He was pathetic, and he hated himself for being such a waste of air.

Only now did he understand what he was doing then. The answer was simple: he mourned.

Eventually his mind calmed, his emotions numbed, and one fateful day he decided it was best to suck it up... For Trucy's sake.

He worked odd jobs which payed terribly but demanded a lot. The pain never left, but he either learned to handle it, or was too tired to feel it. The latter rang true to him now—he felt the sharp sting of regret well up inside him; he tried to ignore it as best he could. He was tired then; he had to get up in the morning, handle Trucy, and rush to work. He was too busy for his thoughts to come after him. Money was hard to come by, so he worked more part-time stints to make up for it. He worked jobs he never expected doing—construction worker, street sweeper—anything he'd be accepted in. The contract would end quickly—so far, they've never been renewed—and he'd begin his search again. He was unemployed now, which didn't greatly bother him. So far, that's how it's been. It was a cycle of instability that brought order into his new way of living. He was tired. Too tired to get drunk and wallow in self-pity. It felt good, somehow.

"It gets better," a voice said.

"Shut _up_, Maya," he thought in reply.

Shut up, shut up, shut _up_, he thought. Time may have passed since her last phone call, but her voice still rang in his head all the same. He knew he'd never forget—and he hated the fact.

"_How long has it been?" _he thought again. Again, memories flooded. Possible scenarios of what-could-have-been flashed before him. Possible culprits for the sabotage of his career—who? he wondered.

The truth used to matter to him—he tried to find it but came up with no answer. Not a clue. "Not yet," Mia would probably say—he probably would've said something like that in the past, now, he was tired. It was a hopeless case, he thought. The damage had been done, and it was irreparable.

It was over.

Once upon a time, he was known as a promising young man. He was a graduate of law at Ivy U, and he'd trained under the immensely skilled Mia Fey. He had connections others would only dream of—the renowned prosecutor Edgeworth was his childhood friend; Maya, his assistant, was Master of Kurain. He supposedly had talent—though his talented self didn't think twice before accepting evidence from a child.

Oh, how times have changed.

He didn't have the heart to stop himself from thinking. Somehow, he felt himself sink deeper into the filthy carpet. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Memories hurt. He did not know why, but they did and they hurt bad—almost physically. He opened his eyes and saw the dimly lit mess of what was once an office.

"_How long has it been?"_ he thought.

The office was a shell of what it once was. He was afraid he was like that too—a shell. The messy room was a museum of sorts, a tireless reminder of the times he spent as a hopeful young attorney. He missed the cases and the clients. He missed the investigations. He missed the adrenaline rush he got in the courtroom and the feeling of his heart beating as he strengthened his case. He missed—

"Stop," he thought.

He remembered Maya. His chest grew cold. Thoughts of her, and of everyone, began to flood in. A heavy nervousness gripped him like a noose. He found it hard to breathe and his heart pounded. His head pounded; the migraine he'd tried to ignore flared back up. He squeezed his eyes shut. "Shut up, shut up, shut _up_," he whispered to himself.

Thoughts of everything have bothered him since he'd woken today. He blinked a few times.

Maybe he wanted to remember. Maybe it would do him good. Maybe not, but having nothing to do but sit and wait gave him zero distractions. What was gone was gone, and he knew thinking about it would do him no good. But the past pestered him to no end. Maybe it wasn't a choice anymore.

He braced himself, hoping that he'd feel less like shit if he knew what was coming.

He took the other half of Trucy's pill and swallowed it. Paracetamol and beer—not exactly a good combination. Phoenix didn't care. He took another swig.

"_How long has it been?" _he asked himself. He wasn't exactly sure._"An eternity,"_he answered, then sighed. He emptied the can hurriedly, then tossed it somewhere beside him. He leaned back against the sofa and closed his eyes.

For the first time in a long time, alcohol began to marinate his liver once more.


End file.
